


run as fast as you can (and we'll make it out alive)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coincidences, F/M, Really convenient circumstances, zombie au with no actual zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 15:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2816639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s her first bit of good luck in one year, eleven months, and three days.</p>
<p>[Or, that time a zombie apocalypse prevented the HYDRA uprising.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	run as fast as you can (and we'll make it out alive)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Беги так быстро, как только сможешь (и мы выберемся отсюда живыми)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6638335) by [lenaazarova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenaazarova/pseuds/lenaazarova)



> Approximately twenty years ago, darkangelcryo prompted me with "biospecialist zombie au." I wrote like half of the following story, then decided that I wanted to write the whole thing--the initial outbreak, Jemma meeting up with her group, etc.--and abandoned this to write _that_. Except then I stalled, because as it happens, writing two years of a zombie apocalypse is a lot of work. Also it involved a whole bunch of OCs that no one but me would've cared about.
> 
> So I came back to this, and here we are!
> 
> Title is from "Get Well" by Icon for Hire. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review.

Running into them is a complete coincidence. It’s her first bit of good luck in one year, eleven months, and three days.

She’s on patrol with Stephen, checking the forest for signs of recent zombie activity while the rest of the group sets up camp. It’s early in the day for it—usually they try to travel until nightfall—but they have a decision to make about their destination, so Lex called for them to stop early.

“Any signs?” Stephen asks. He has his gun at the ready, as always, and, as always, it sends a pang of longing through her. Stephen is a nice man, kind—if a little abrupt—and protective of their group as a whole and the women in particular, but she avoids him as often as possible. He reminds her too much of what she’s lost.

“No,” she says, scanning the clearing they’ve just entered. “But you would know better than I.”

“True enough,” he admits, with one of his self-deprecating little grins. “But I think you’re right. I don’t see…”

He breaks off, flinging one arm out to stop her from walking any farther. She holds her breath, looking around frantically, searching for a clue as to what’s startled him. She can’t see anything…but, after a moment, she hears it.

It’s not a zombie, unless it’s a zombie which has spontaneously developed the power of human speech (a frightening thought). However, the voice is unfamiliar, so it’s not a member of their group, either.

Nearly two years after the world ended, Jemma has learned to fear strangers just as much as zombies. She eases back a step as Stephen steps forward, allowing him to move into a position from which he can defend them both. She has her own gun, of course, and she keeps a tight grip on it, but she’s no better with it now than she was when she failed her field assessment, so very long ago.

Jemma, it must be said, has no talent for inflicting pain. Once upon a time that was a good thing, something to be proud of, but in the new way of things? It’s a horrible weakness.

“And all I’m saying,” the unfamiliar male voice continues. Whoever he is, he’s drawing close to their position. “Is that if this is a permanent thing, we need better codenames, okay? Because Romeo Seven is just not cutting it for me. We need something _cool_. Something _fearsome_. Something—”

He appears from behind a tree in the middle of his sentence, a gun—a _submachine_ _gun_ , not a tiny little pistol like Stephen and Jemma have—already pointed directly at Stephen. At the same moment, Jemma feels cold metal press against the back of her head.

A distraction, she realizes. This man, whomever he may be, talked loudly as he approached in order to keep their attention so that his partner could circle around them.

It’s a good strategy—one that may have just cost Jemma and Stephen their lives.

“Hi, there,” the man says. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He holds out one hand, the other keeping his gun aimed at Stephen. Who, after darting a glance at the person behind Jemma, hands over his own weapon with a sigh.

“We don’t want no trouble,” he says, placating. “We didn’t know anyone else was here. If this is your territory, we’ll be on our way. No harm done.”

“Easy to say when I’ve got a gun on you,” the stranger says. “You’ll excuse us if we don’t take your word for it.”

The gun pulls away from Jemma’s head, but she doesn’t dare move, not when Stephen is still in the stranger’s sights. She stays perfectly still as the person behind her circles around to join the stranger. She keeps her eyes on the submachine gun, unable to stop herself from picturing _exactly_ what getting shot with it would do to Stephen—or at least, she does until she hears a gasp and a thud.

“ _Simmons_?” a very, very, _blessedly_ familiar voice chokes out.

She tears her eyes away from the gun, unable to believe what her ears have told her. However, her eyes support the evidence completely.

“Skye,” she breathes.

“Oh my god,” Skye says. “Oh my god. Simmons.”

Jemma couldn’t possibly say which one of them moves—perhaps they both do—but it’s scarcely a second before they’re wrapped in a hug. She clings desperately to Skye, unable to believe what’s happening—terrified that she’s about to wake up.

“Skye,” she says. She’s not sure whether she’s laughing or crying. “Skye, you’re here, how is this—?”

“You’re alive,” Skye is gasping. “You’re here, you’re alive, oh my god, Jemma.”

“Okay,” Stephen says. “So I guess you two know each other?”

She barely even hears him over the rushing in her ears. Skye is _alive_ , she’s here, she’s real and she’s solid and she’s _alive_ and Jemma—Jemma’s not alone anymore.

She thinks she might faint from the sheer relief of it.

She doesn’t know how long they stand there, clinging to each other like limpets, but eventually Skye lets out a little gasp and pulls back.

“Oh my god,” she says. “I have to—I need to call back to base, this is—”

“Already done,” her partner says. “Charlie One is on the way.”

Skye frowns at him. “You called in Charlie?”

“Seemed appropriate,” he shrugs. “That is, if I’m right in assuming that this is _the_ Simmons?”

“Yeah,” Skye says on an exhale, like she can’t quite believe it. Jemma sympathizes entirely. “Yeah, she is.”

“Okay,” Stephen says. “I’m…definitely missin’ somethin’ here. Jemma?”

She finally tears her eyes away from Skye’s face and turns to look at him. Skye’s partner has lowered his gun—which is good; she’d have felt terrible if Stephen was being held at gunpoint this whole time—and Stephen has turned away from him to face Jemma with his arms crossed. He doesn’t look terribly patient.

“Stephen,” she says. “You know that I worked for SHIELD, before.”

He nods; it’s something that caused a bit of strife, during their group’s beginning stages. Everyone was eager for someone to blame for the decline of human civilization, and the shadowy, mysterious SHIELD seemed a perfect scapegoat. She was nearly kicked out of the group in the first week, when conversation turned to their lives before and she blithely told them she was a SHIELD scientist.

“Well, _Skye_ was a member of my team,” she tells him. “And I thought I was the only survivor, so…I’m very glad to see her.”

Stephen looks less happy, although the nod he gives Skye is friendly enough. “And the other one?”

“Oh, I’ve never met him, before,” she says, glancing at the man in question. He gives her a serious nod—more respectful than friendly, and she wonders at it. “Jemma Simmons. Nice to meet you.”

“I know who you are, ma’am,” he says. “Eric Maddox. It’s an honor.”

Before she can puzzle that out—an honor? Why?—her attention is drawn back to Stephen, who has cleared his throat impatiently.

“Okay, but where I’m havin’ a problem,” he says. “Is that Maddox here called for back-up. Which means we’re about to be outgunned.”

“Right,” Jemma says. “Yes. Well, I’m sure that’s not—I mean, if Skye trusts them…”

She trails off, glancing uncertainly at Skye—who, she’s surprised to see, is beaming at her.

“Trust me,” she says. “You’ve got _nothing_ to worry about.”

Jemma tries not to read anything in that. It wouldn’t do to get her hopes up. It is, quite frankly, a miracle that Skye is alive and here with her. The chances of any of the others surviving as well are so small as to be…painful.

“See?” she asks, turning to Stephen with a smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I think we both know Lex won’t see it that way,” he says flatly.

She tries not to wince. That’s certainly true.

Lex is their leader, and she takes the job very seriously. She’s cautious to the point of paranoid when it comes to security, and she won’t be happy that, upon coming across other people, they’ve done anything other than shoot them and run away. Jemma’s personal connection to Skye will not be seen as an acceptable excuse.

Maddox suddenly straightens, one hand going to his ear, and the motion reboots Jemma’s brain (so to speak). He _called_ for back-up? How? And Skye mentioned a base, and Charlie One—that’s a team name, if ever she’s heard one. And Charlie _One_ suggests that there are other Charlies. _And_ Maddox, when he was approaching their position, was complaining about being called Romeo Seven—suggesting there are at least six other Romeos.

Just how large _is_ this group that Skye’s fallen in with?

“Yes, sir,” Maddox says, distracting her. “We’re on the north border of Sector Seventeen.”

They have _radios_. How on _earth_ do they have _working radios_? And Sector Seventeen—meaning that they’ve sectioned off the forest into at least seventeen pieces. That implies a level of organization which is, to be honest, a little concerning. She trusts Skye, of course she does, but still…

She darts a glance at Skye, who’s still beaming.

“Trust me,” she says, apparently seeing Jemma’s worry. “Everything’s gonna be okay, now.”

Before she can ask any of the many, many questions she has, she’s distracted by the sound of the surrounding vegetation rustling. She turns to face the bushes behind her just as they part to allow three people to step into the clearing, and she would swear her heart stops.

It can’t be. It’s just—it’s just her mind, toying with her. It wouldn’t be the first time. How many times has she thought she’s seen him, only for her vision to clear and reveal a stranger?

“Jemma,” he breathes, and she claps a hand over her mouth to cover a sob.

It _is_ him. There are a few new lines on his face, a few new scars marring his visible skin (and probably more beneath his clothes, the silly, careless man), but it’s him. It’s her husband. Tall and gorgeous and looking at her like she’s his entire world.

“Grant,” she whispers.

The next thing she knows, she’s across the clearing and wrapped in his arms. She has no memory of moving—no memory of planning to, even—but here she is. She fists her hands in his shirt, taking deep breaths and trying not to cry. Her nails might be digging into his skin, but she doesn’t think he’ll mind—she’s certainly not bothered by his desperate, bruising grip on her. It hurts a little, but even that’s a relief. It means she’s awake.

It means that this is really happening. Grant and Skye are both alive, and she’s found them. Thank god. Thank god.

She loses her battle against her tears, two years of fear and grief and endless running overwhelming her, and all she can do is press her face to his chest as she sobs. He tightens his grip on her, fingers digging in even harder, and she feels him press a kiss to her hair.

“You’re okay,” he says roughly. “Everything’s okay. I’ve got you.”

It only makes her cry harder, because those are the same words he always used to say when she woke from nightmares of falling, and she’s spent the last two years longing desperately to hear them again but knowing she never would.

Except, miraculously, she has.

After several long (perfect, amazing, _unbelievable_ ) moments, during which she manages to regain her composure enough to stop crying, she feels a light touch on her shoulder. It can’t be Grant, as he hasn’t moved at all, so, curious, she turns her head to look. Her grip on Grant’s shirt slackens in her surprise.

It’s May.

“Oh,” Jemma says, a little faintly, and then, with difficulty, pulls herself out of Grant’s grasp to throw herself at May.

That’s not the kind of relationship they had. She doesn’t think _anyone_ was on hugging terms with Agent May. But that was before—before life as they knew it ended, before the Hub, before Jemma spent two years surrounded by strangers, thinking her team was dead. Now, twenty-three months and change since she last saw May, there’s absolutely no way Jemma could _possibly_ keep from hugging her.

May doesn’t seem to mind. She returns the embrace warmly and without hesitation, and Jemma feels tears building again. This time, luckily, she manages to swallow them down.

She has so many questions. Questions like, how are they alive? Where have they been? What exactly is this _base_ Skye spoke of earlier, and how many people do they have? What sort of supplies have they stockpiled? How on _earth_ do they have working radios?

Who else is alive?

That’s the big one, of course, and she can’t quite find her voice to ask it. Because she came to terms, more than a year ago, with being alone. She mourned her team—Grant and Skye and May and Coulson and _Fitz_ —for months, and then put them aside, because it was the only way to survive. Now three of them are here, standing right in front of her, and it’s a miracle, more than anything she could have asked, but a tiny part of her is saying _what if_? and that’s…

She can’t stop the hope that’s building in her chest. And if the end of the world has taught her anything, it’s that hope is dangerous.

After a minute, May pats her back a little and draws away.

“It’s good to see you, Simmons,” she says.

“And you as well,” Jemma says. A few tears escape, despite her, and she swipes at them impatiently as she steps closer to Grant. He takes her hand and tugs her closer still, but doesn’t pull her back into his embrace, and she looks up at him to find him scanning the clearing with his face set.

“Jemma,” Skye says, drawing her attention. “How are—I mean—what…” She shakes her head. “How did you _survive_?”

“We’re too exposed here,” Grant interrupts before she can answer. His voice still sounds rather rough, but it’s still the most beautiful thing she’s ever heard. “Conversation can wait until we get back to base.”

“Right,” Skye agrees. “Right, sorry. I just—wow.”

She rubs at her face and crouches to pick something up from the ground at her feet—a gun, Jemma sees, and remembers the thump she heard before Skye spoke. She must have dropped it when she recognized Jemma. Come to think of it, what did Jemma do with _her_ gun?

She checks, and is mildly impressed to find that she apparently took the time to return it to her holster before throwing herself at Skye. It seems that some of Sara’s constant lecturing stuck with her, after all. She’ll be so pleased.

“Where’s the rest of your group?” Grant asks her.

“What makes you think we got a group?” Stephen demands before she can say anything.

Grant hits him with a scathing look. “The fact that the two of you are alone in the woods with no supplies. You’re obviously on patrol—checking out the area before you set up camp.”

“We are,” Stephen agrees. “That don’t necessarily mean we got anyone else with us. Maybe we’re on our own.”

“To have survived this long, you’d need a lot of supplies,” Grant says. “Only an idiot would leave those supplies unattended, and I know Jemma’s not an idiot. You’ve got a group.”

“Yes, we do,” Jemma confirms, frowning at Stephen. “They’re—”

“Don’t you say another word, Jem,” he orders. “You got no right.”

“Right?” she echoes, offended. “I have every _right_ to answer a simple question, and furthermore—”

“You’re smarter than that,” he interrupts. “That ain’t a simple question, and you know it. Or have you forgot Carlos?”

The name hits her like a physical blow, and she takes a step back before she can stop herself.

Of course she hasn’t forgotten Carlos. Of course she hasn’t. She hasn’t forgotten the fifteen-year-old boy who wanted to be an artist, but _there’s no need for_ those _anymore, doc, so what say you train me up_ , because she’s still not that sort of doctor but there’s no need for biochemists anymore, either.

She remembers him. Remembers the first time they encountered other survivors, when she was badly wounded, bleeding out without the medical supplies necessary to stop it, and she had to talk him through cauterizing her wound. She remembers that when he said _man, you SHIELD agents are hardcore_ , his voice was shaking, but his hands were steady.

She remembers that when she woke, hours and hours after the pain drove her into unconsciousness, he was waiting by her side. Remembers that he broke down in tears as he apologized for the pain he caused her. She remembers that after she reassured him that he only did what was necessary, and after she thanked him for saving her life, he apologized for breaking down. He thought it made him weak—she remembers that. She remembers telling him about Skye getting shot—the first and only time she spoke of her team to _anyone_ in the group—and having to retreat to a storage closet to cry.

She remembers Carlos. She remembers everything about him. Including the look on his face when, three weeks ago, he was shot to death protecting his little sister. That encounter with other survivors—their fourth—ended in a slaughter on both sides, which wiped out nearly two-thirds of their group.

Grief for Carlos—for everyone they lost that day—burns in her throat, but she swallows it down.

“Of course I haven’t,” she says calmly. “I’ll never forget Carlos, or any of the others. But this is different.”

“How?” Stephen demands. “Every single time we meet other survivors, it ends in a fight. Every time. We all nearly got killed—includin’ you. What the hell makes you think this is gonna be any different?”

Grant’s grip on her hand tightens slightly at the (entirely unnecessary) addition about her near-death, and she squeezes back reassuringly.

“It’s going to be different because these aren’t strangers,” she tells Stephen. “These are my friends—my _family_ —and they won’t hurt the people to whom I owe my life.”

She looks expectantly to Grant and finds him studying Stephen with a carefully blank face. He was never the most trusting of people, even _before_ all of this, so it’s not terribly surprising, but it’s not exactly helping to reassure Stephen, so she nudges him pointedly.

He glances down at her, then looks back to Stephen, his expression clearing.

“Of course we won’t,” he says. He looks around the clearing thoughtfully, then back to Stephen. “We have a base. It’s secure and well-stocked. We don’t have much in the way of civilian guests, but I’m willing to make an exception in this case.” He smiles slightly. “Considering the circumstances.”

“And if I say no thanks?” Stephen asks warily.

“Then Maddox will escort you back to your camp and make the offer to the rest of your group,” Grant shrugs. “Any of them who want in will be welcome.”

Stephen doesn’t relax at all. “And the ones who don’t?”

“The ones who don’t would be smart to move on,” Grant replies flatly.

Stephen bristles, and Grant rolls his eyes.

“That wasn’t a threat,” he clarifies. His tone implies a silent insult, and while that’s not helpful—well, Jemma has _seen_ Grant’s idea of a threat. That was nowhere near it. “Just a friendly warning.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stephen asks, skeptical.

“Our scouts picked up a hoard,” Grant says. “It’s a few miles south of us. If your camp is anywhere near the highway, the hoard’ll be walking right through it by nightfall.”

Considering the fact that their camp is essentially in the middle of the highway, _that_ is more than a little concerning.

Stephen obviously thinks so, too. “’Preciate the warning, then. I’ll be leaving now.” He turns to Jemma. “You sure about this? Can’t say I blame you, wantin’ to stay with your people, but…”

“I’m sure, thank you,” she says. She hesitates. This is definitely goodbye, at least to Stephen. She has hopes that at least a few of their group will choose to join her at whatever base her team has set up, but if they don’t…

She might never see any of them again, and for a moment, she’s tempted to ask to accompany Stephen and Maddox back to the camp. She’s been with her group for nearly two years—longer than she was with the team on the Bus. It seems wrong to leave them without a goodbye.

She will, though. Because the thought of taking her eyes away from Grant, Skye, and May for even a moment is even worse. She doesn’t dare to try. What if she turns her back and they disappear? What if this is just a particularly vivid hallucination?

She doesn’t think it is, not with Grant’s fingers laced so tightly with hers. Not with Skye standing so close that their shoulders brush with every breath. But she’s simply not willing to risk it. If this _is_ a hallucination or a fever dream or _whatever_ —she wants to enjoy it for as long as possible.

Her group is her group, and she’s fond of and grateful to them. For all that she’s lived and fought and nearly died beside them, though, they can’t outweigh the team—the family—that she’s spent two years longing so desperately to see again. Carlos might have—for the boy who was apprentice and brother both, she would have marched back to the camp and personally assured that he accompanied them to the base her team has made. But Carlos is gone, and nothing and no one is left in the camp that can draw her away from Grant and May and Skye.

Her pack is back at the camp, of course, but there’s nothing in it she can’t stand to lose. Just a few rations and a change of clothes or two. And while clean clothes are nothing to scoff at, in these times—well, even if this mysterious base of theirs _doesn’t_ have any stockpiled clothing (something she doubts, considering the like-new condition of the clothes Skye is wearing), Jemma can make do.

So there’s no reason to hesitate, and yet hesitate she does. In the end, though, her desire to remain with Grant, Skye, and May outweighs any lingering obligation she feels to her group. Still, there is one thing she can do.

“Here,” she says. She lets go of Grant’s hand in order to draw her gun from its holster and steps forward to offer it to Stephen, careful to keep the barrel pointed at the ground. “Could you see that this gets back to Sara, please?”

He eyes it, but makes no move to accept it. “You’re givin’ up your weapon?”

“It’s not mine,” she points out. “It’s Sara’s. And I won’t need it anymore.”

“You got that much faith in these people?” he asks, looking away from the gun to meet her eyes. “You’re gonna give up your only means of protectin’ yourself?”

“I won’t need it,” she repeats, then smiles. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t do me much good.”

“True enough,” he says, with a smile of his own. She’s sure that he, like her, is thinking of the disastrous attempt he made at improving her shooting. He lasted all of an hour before handing her over to Sara and then disappearing into halls of the building they were sheltering in at the time for ‘recon’—from which he didn’t return for nearly a full day.

“Please,” she says. “Sara has done so much for me; stealing one of her guns would be very poor recompense.”

He sighs heavily, but takes the gun and tucks it into his waistband.

“I hope you’re right about these friends of yours,” he tells her. “For your sake.”

“I am,” she promises. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

He looks past her, taking in Grant and Skye and May, and then gives her a nod.

“Maybe I don’t,” he says, although he still doesn’t sound convinced. “But I’m gonna anyway.” He gives her a little salute and turns away. “Good luck, Jemma.”

“Good luck, Stephen,” she says. He’ll need it more than she will; she’s received a miracle today, so it’s safe to say her luck is excellent. “Give the others my regards.”

“Yep,” he says, and disappears into the trees, followed closely by Maddox.

She stares after him for a long moment. She’s sure she’s going to spend the rest of her life wondering about him, and however many of the others choose not to accept the offer of shelter. She’ll have no way of knowing whether they live or die—whether they get bitten or become overrun by zombies or run afoul of another group of survivors.

They might survive. They might not. Either way, she’ll never know for certain.

She wonders if it makes her a terrible person that she finds it a relief.

A light touch on her shoulder draws her out of her thoughts, and she turns to face Grant.

“We need to move,” he says. “It’s not safe here.”

“Yes,” she says, and takes a deep breath. “Of course. Lead the way.”

He takes her hand again, then looks to the other man in the clearing—the one who accompanied him and May. Jemma had honestly forgotten he was there, for which she thinks she can be excused. She’s so overwhelmed by this gift she’s been given—by three people she thought long dead, standing right in front of her—that she thinks she’s doing well to remember her own name. The presence of a complete stranger (especially one who hasn’t spoken a single word) never had a chance.

“You’re on point,” Grant orders, and the man gives a sharp nod. “We’re taking the short way. Keep your eyes open.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man disappears into the woods, back the way that he, Grant, and May originally came, and after a final glance around the clearing, Grant follows, tugging Jemma along with him. Skye falls into step beside her, while May brings up the rear. They’re all obviously on guard, and Jemma does her best to remain the same, despite the thousands of questions building on the tip of her tongue.

“You really shouldn’t have given away your gun,” Grant says, after a few minutes. “You know I’ll—we’ll—protect you, but that’s no reason to give up your means of protecting yourself.”

She smiles to herself. It’s so like him to look at it that way.

“I’m afraid I’d be more of a danger to us than to any zombies,” she admits. “I’m still hopeless with a gun.” She pauses, thinking of the disastrous incident involving Cam’s crossbow. “With any weapon, actually. It’s really a miracle I’ve survived this long.”

“That’s okay,” Skye says, and bumps shoulders with her. “We’ve got your back. And the base is totally secure. Zombies will never be a problem for you again.”

“Unless I leave,” she offers.

Grant mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _over my dead body_ , and she squeezes his hand. Just because the world has ended doesn’t mean she’s about to let him make her decisions for her, but they’ve been apart for so long that even his tendency to be unreasonably over-protective (a long-standing issue in their marriage) is more endearing than annoying.

She didn’t think she’d ever hear him grumble about her safety again. She’s far too happy to be angered by it.

“Trust me, you won’t want to leave,” Skye promises, ignoring Grant’s muttering. “We have _showers_ , Jemma.”

She nearly trips over her own feet. “You have running water?”

“Not only _running_ water,” Skye says. “ _Hot_ water. And cold water. And air conditioning.” She grins smugly. “It’s basically paradise.”

“You—I—but—” She stammers for a moment, before overcoming her shock enough to ask, “ _How_?”

“It’s an old SSR base,” Grant says. “Hadn’t been used in decades, but apparently Fury set it up as some kind of…secret last resort.” He gives her a sideways look. “It has a lab, too.”

“That _is_ paradise,” she says, only half-joking. She’s a little overwhelmed by the information—by the idea that her days of running and suffering are over. Not only has she been given back three of the people she’s spent two years missing, but they’re offering her an amazing safe haven. It’s almost too good to be true.

The mention of Fury does make her wonder, however. Between their apparent manpower—at least seven Romeo teams, at least two Charlies, scouts, and the like—and the fact that they’re sheltering in a base set up by the Director of SHIELD…

“Have you rebuilt SHIELD, then?” she asks.

Skye rocks the hand not holding her gun back and forth in a so-so motion. “Kind of. A lot of our people are former SHIELD, and I guess we’re following a lot of old SHIELD protocols—and let me say, again, how freaking _weird_ it is that SHIELD had apocalypse protocols—but…we’re not exactly doing the protect and serve thing.”

Protect and serve is police officers, not SHIELD agents, but Jemma knows what Skye means. She doesn’t know whether or not she’s disappointed that they’re not using their apparently extensive resources to help people.

This is a happy moment. She’ll think about it later.

“So, who’s in charge?” she asks. “I don’t suppose Director Fury…?”

“No,” Grant says. “We think he died in the Triskelion, when it got overrun. As for who’s in charge…” He clears his throat. “I think that discussion can wait.”

She frowns up at him, confused by his clear discomfort, and then looks to Skye.

“Aww, you’re so modest,” Skye coos mockingly. “ _Sir_.”

_That_ takes a moment to process. When it does, she almost stops walking entirely. It’s only Grant’s tight grip on her hand that keeps her moving.

“Wait,” she says. “ _You’re_ in command?”

Now that she thinks about it, his offer to Stephen _was_ oddly phrased, wasn’t it? _I’m_ willing to make an exception, rather than _we’re_. She doesn’t know how she missed it.

He shrugs, a touch uncomfortably. “Garrett was in charge for a while, but he…died. Natural causes.”

“Oh, Grant,” she says, and squeezes his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

John Garrett was always like a father to Grant. It must have been hard to lose him—especially when he had already lost _her_. (And Jemma knows it’s not arrogance to say that he must have taken losing her very, very badly.)

She has to swallow down her own grief at the news, because just as John was as a father to Grant, he always treated her like a daughter-in-law. She hasn’t given him much thought over the past two years—because if she let herself think about _everyone_ she missed, she never would have made it past the first week—and she regrets that now. Still, natural causes. In these times, that’s really something. He must have been sick; she hopes he didn’t suffer too badly.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs again, and she’s not surprised. Grant is reticent about his feelings at the best of times; in the middle of the woods, at risk of ambush by zombies, is hardly the time for him to admit what he would see as weakness. “Anyway. After he was gone, May and I were the highest ranked agents left. And she didn’t want the job, so…”

He trails off uncomfortably, and she realizes why he didn’t want to discuss this now. If he and May are the highest ranked living agents, that means there are no Level Eights left. Which means that Coulson must be dead.

She swallows and closes her eyes for a moment against the tears she feels building, trusting Grant to guide her. She didn’t know Coulson for very long, comparatively speaking, but he was a good man, and she respected him very much. She’s never forgotten the day she was infected by the Chitauri virus, when he steadfastly refused to have her thrown from the plane, in complete violation of both protocol and common sense.

He could be reckless and foolhardy, and he occasionally put Grant at what she considered unnecessary risk, but he _was_ a good man. She’s missed him, and it hurts to realize that she’ll never see him again.

But grief is a part of life in these times, so she swallows it down and opens her eyes again.

Now she truly doesn’t dare ask about Fitz, because _that_ is not a loss she can put aside. She’ll wait until they reach the base, until it’s safe for her to—if necessary—break down. She can wait that long, surely? She’s spent two years completely convinced he was dead—and how _any_ of them made it out of Florida is another question for later, because _that_ is something she thought impossible—she can make it a few more minutes or hours without a definitive answer.

In the interests of reducing the temptation to ask anyway, she redirects the conversation. “So, you have a lab?”

“Yes,” Skye says brightly. It rings slightly false, but then, Skye and Coulson were always very close. Doubtless the indirect mention brought her own grief to the surface. “A really big one. Lots of science-y stuff.” She gives Jemma a grin. “Twenty bucks says you have this zombie crap cured by the end of the year.”

“Twenty?” she asks, laughing. “Ending the apocalypse in nine months is only worth twenty dollars to you?”

“It’s not like we use money anymore anyway,” Skye points out, shrugging. “I mean, I could bet my candy ration, but that’s not something I’m willing to risk.”

Jemma pauses. “You have sweets?”

“Chocolate,” Grant confirms, sounding amused. His light tone would be more convincing were he not currently cutting off the circulation in her fingers with his grip, but she can’t blame him. She’s holding back just as tightly. “Among other things.”

“A _lot_ of other things,” Skye puts in. “Fury totally had his priorities in order.”

“Apparently,” Jemma agrees, slightly mystified. This really does all sound too good to be true—at least half of her team is alive, including her husband, and they have a well-stocked, secured base to return to, complete with electricity, a lab, and _chocolate_ —and she has no idea what to think of it.

Good things just don’t _happen_ anymore. This is very surreal.

“So,” she says. “How does one go about earning a chocolate ration? Just out of curiosity.”

Behind them, May scoffs. “You can have Hunter’s.”

“Hunter?” she asks, twisting slightly to look at her.

“New recruit,” Skye supplies. “May doesn’t like him.”

“No one likes him,” Grant mutters. “Even Morse doesn’t like him, and she’s the one who vouched for him.”

“She likes him sometimes,” Skye disagrees. “Mack walked in on them in the garage, you know. Apparently that divorce wasn’t as final as they claim.”

Grant makes a face. “I do know. I’m the one who had to reprimand them for it. I’ve never felt so much like a goddamned babysitter.”

“Really?” Skye asks. “Not even that time…”

Jemma remains silent as the two of them (with the occasional interjection from May) begin to bicker about which of several ridiculous incidents was the most annoying for him to deal with. There are so many names she doesn’t know, so many events for which she has no context, and it’s somewhat jarring. Just as she has two years of memories without them, she realizes, they have two years of memories without her.

She wonders if she’ll ever share her memories; she can’t imagine sitting around a table telling them about the time Nate  convinced Lex that the best way to keep the children quiet was to give them something productive to do—or the series of sock-puppet theatre productions that followed. Yet her memories are such a large part of her life—a large part of _her_ —and at the same time she can’t imagine _not_ sharing them.

“Hey,” Grant says, and she looks up to find him watching her with a concerned expression. “You okay?”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “Yes, I’m fine. I just…” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe this is real. I can’t believe you’re _here_.”

“Right back at you, Simmons,” Skye says, bumping shoulders with her again. Grant simply squeezes her hand that much more tightly for a moment, then loosens his grip again—loosens being a relative term, as her fingers are still entirely without circulation. “I mean, seriously. Of all the gin joints—or forests—in all the world, you just _happened_ to stop outside of ours?”

“We nearly didn’t,” she admits, and she thinks that it’s something that’s going to haunt her. She came _so close_ to missing them entirely. “I argued against it, in fact.” She rubs her free hand against the back of her neck. “I’ve never been so grateful to have my opinion ignored.”

“Speaking of your crew,” Skye says, and hesitates.

“Yes?” she asks.

“Um, do you think any of them are gonna join us at the base?” she asks.

It’s obviously not the question she originally intended to ask, but Jemma lets it go. She’s not sure she wants to know what the original question was, to put that look on Skye’s face.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “A safe place to rest is always tempting, but we’ve had terrible luck with other survivors. And none of the others have any reason to trust you…aside from my word, which I’m not even giving in person.”

“Yeah, your friend Stephen mentioned your luck with other survivors,” Grant says, and his voice has the particular tone he only uses when he’s about to cause someone harm on her behalf. “Something about you almost dying?”

“I’m sure you’ve been in just as much danger as I have,” she says, dodging the implied question. “If not more so.”

“It’s a dangerous world,” May says simply.

Grant, who looked about to press the issue, sighs. “Yeah. It is.”

Jemma gives May a thankful smile over her shoulder. She knows that probably won’t be the end of it—if nothing else, she intends to have her way with Grant just as soon as she gets him alone, and he’ll have plenty to say about the scars she gained during their separation—but she appreciates the reprieve.

“We’re almost there,” Skye tells her. “What do you want first? Shower? Chocolate?” She nudges her. “Alone time with our fearless leader?”

Abruptly, her eyes are filled with tears, and she has to stop walking for a moment. Skye’s own eyes go wide.

“What?” she asks, a little frantically. “Was it something I said? Are you hurt? Do you—”

“No,” she interrupts, laughing a bit. “I just…I really missed you.”

“Aww, Simmons,” Skye says, and hugs her. “I missed you, too. We all did.”

She returns the hug with one arm, unwilling to let go of Grant’s hand long enough to do it properly. Tears are still threatening, and she closes her eyes as she holds Skye close. She still can’t believe this is happening. She gave up on all of them so long ago, and now…

She takes a deep breath and pulls away from Skye, swiping at her eyes with her free hand.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be,” May says. “We understand.”

Grant is silent. She can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s struggling with some emotions of his own (the ridiculous man), so she doesn’t take it personally. Instead, she clears her throat.

“So,” she says. “We’re almost there?”

“Yep,” Skye confirms, as they start walking again. “Just a few more minutes. And? What do you want first?”

“Shower, chocolate, or alone time with Grant,” she muses, darting a playful look at her husband. He meets it with a raised eyebrow. “Hmm.” She looks back to Skye. “What’s base policy on communal showers?”

“Simmons!” Skye gasps, feigning shock. Then she laughs. “Actually, base policy is pretty strict on that. We’ve had some…incidents.”

“Base policy is whatever I want it to be,” Grant says. “And in any case, I’ve got a private suite, so…”

“Something to keep in mind,” Jemma says, grinning at him. The temptation to kiss him is almost overwhelming, but she resists it. She knows herself—and him—well enough to know that once they start, they won’t be stopping any time soon. Joking in front of Skye and May is one thing; actually doing anything in front of them is something else entirely.

(Also, they’re still in the middle of the woods, with the threat of zombies looming. It’s not really the place for it.)

“Hey, no bedroom eyes,” Skye scolds, elbowing her. “There are children present.”

Jemma blinks. “No there aren’t.”

“I’m a child at heart,” Skye claims. “Also incredibly jealous, since _someone_ sent my boyfriend on a mission last week—”

“He volunteered,” Grant says, in a tone which suggests this isn’t the first time Skye has brought it up.

“Only because he wants your approval,” Skye argues. “He thinks if he takes a lot of missions and does really well on them you’ll stop threatening to shoot him in the face.”

“Like I would really shoot him in the face,” Grant scoffs. “Do you have _any_ idea what kind of mess that makes?”

“ _Ward_ ,” Skye says.

Whatever else she has to say is lost, however, as a man and a woman appear out of nowhere. Or, more likely, the trees, but Jemma certainly doesn’t see it happen. One moment there’s no one there, and the next, two people are blocking their way.

“Sir,” the woman says. “Welcome back.”

Grant nods at her. “Any activity?”

“None, sir,” the man says. “All quiet.”

“Good,” he says. “Maddox is still out. He might have company when he gets back. If he does, let them into the entry and call me. No one goes into the main base until I give the word.”

“Understood,” the woman says.

The man nods his agreement, then lifts a hand to his ear. “Charlie One returning.”

As if in response, the trees before them shift, then—in front of Jemma’s very impressed eyes—part, drawing back to expose a solid metal trap door. After a moment, it too slides aside, revealing a stone staircase.

“Well,” she says, after a moment of stunned silence. “That was…dramatic.”

Skye laughs. “That’s what I keep saying!”

“I’ve told you, there’s nothing we can do about it,” Grant says. He sounds annoyed, but he’s smiling as he looks down at Jemma. “Welcome to the Cellar. Ready to go in?”

She takes a deep breath and imagines she can feel the weight of the past two years falling from her shoulders. Whether or not Fitz is alive, whether or not any of her group joins them, whether or not she can, as Skye joked earlier, find a solution for the zombie problem in the base’s lab…

Whatever happens next, she’s not alone. She’s not in danger. She has her husband and two of her friends back.

She’s in a much, much better place than she was this morning.

“Absolutely,” she says, and follows him down into their future.

**Author's Note:**

> I know that last line is cheesy and ridiculous, but...whatever. I had to end it somewhere. Thanks for reading!


End file.
